The logo on the front of the kick drum stares back at me, blankly. It says “Gretsch”, but I can’t be bothered to think about the 100 or so years of history behind the brand name. Instead, I’m in a dark basement that smells like cat urine and stale beer. There are black lights illuminating most everything, revealing the various stains and blotches on the carpet and walls that I don’t really care to see.
My band is practicing and I, reluctantly, am playing bass in this disaster of a practice space. It’s hot outside, almost 100 degrees, and it’s even hotter downstairs where we’re playing. The humidity makes it difficult to breathe, and somehow makes the putrid detritus and animal leavings even more unbearable.
We’ve finished about half of our songs, and we’re considering taking a break soon. I’m anxious to get out of the room. I’m sweating like a white republican during a government investigation, and I swear that I’m beginning to see things. I must be hallucinating from the heat. Jesus Christ it’s hot down here.
My fingers are slipping along the strings of my bass and I’m having trouble keeping them within the correct frets. It’s like trying to play notes on a Slip’n’Slide. I keep reading the brand name on the drum set, “GretschGretschGretschGretsch”. It has become a mantra. A distraction. Anything to keep my mind off of the smell and the heat and the pain in my wrists and hands.
It seems like we’ve been playing forever. Eternity. I begin to wonder if maybe I’ve died and gone to hell. I could imagine hell being a lot like this. Maybe with a little less cat pee, but otherwise, the correlation is spot on.
We’re getting close to the end of one of our songs and I can tell that everyone is already wiped out. Barely half way through our practice and everyone is looking around with the same expression on their face: Do we really want to finish?
Of course we want to finish. We have gigs coming up, and this is the last practice we’ll be able to fit in until after two weeks of shows. We can’t afford not to practice.
The last note rings out from our song, “Part 1”, and I feel a small sense of elation knowing that I’ll be heading outside for a few minutes. I know that this is what it takes; these are the sacrifices it takes to become a successful band. But at the moment, I don’t care. I just want out of this god forsaken room.
I can feel sweat trickling down in to my eyes, and now they’re burning. I’m done. I’m getting out of here.
Before starting the next song, I tell the rest of the band that I’m going outside. I set down my bass and walk out before they have a chance to respond. I don’t care. I feel like I’m dying and my self-preservation mode has kicked in.
It’s only a little bit cooler outside, but a decent breeze and lack of olfactory assault goes a long way. I’m feeling a mild sense of relief to be standing out on the sidewalk away from the thrum of guitars, keyboards, and drum sets.
The other four members of the band file out one by one, as if they’re on their way to their own execution. As each person makes their way to the sidewalk in front of the house, they stand next to me and take out their cigarettes and tobacco pouches.
Every person in the band smokes except for me, and they all light up as soon as they’re situated. I’ve gone from a cat pee laden room, to tobacco smoke “fresh air”.
Oh well. I’m not that attached to my lungs.
We talk about nothing in particular: girl trouble, money problems, upcoming shows, cover song ideas, song changes, album sales, in-laws, death, and the requisite jokes about each others sexuality. Nothing overly official, but band ideas are almost always discussed during our breaks.
As we begin to contemplate the walk back to the basement, we’re all exchanging glances again. Do we really want to go back down there?
We can’t play outside. It’d be too noisy and we’d have the cops bringing the noise ordinance smackdown in no time. But the misery involved in finishing out the rest of our songs is insurmountable.
We have another twenty songs to practice and then we’ll be able to pack up and leave for the night. Even though it’s starting to get late, we decide that we might as well head back down to the basement, suck it up, and try to enjoy the music as much as possible.
Standing off to one side in the tiny basement room and I’m staring down at the drum set logo once again. I can hear it now each time our drummer hits the kick drum.
“Gretsch”…”Gretsch”…”GretschGretsch”…”Gretsch”
I can hear it pounding in the center of my brain, exacerbating an already profound headache that I’ve had since early this morning. I’m ready to die. I don’t see how hell could compare to this any longer.
I glance around at the other band members as we’re playing, and realize that they’re all smiling. No reason. Just smiling.
We’re all standing in just about the smallest room you can fit five people in to, surrounded by hot amps, hot lights, and no fans in 100 degree weather, and we’re all smiling like psychos.
To an outside person, I’m sure we all look nuts. I’m sure we look like the cheese had finally fallen off of our collective crackers.
And then it happens.
It starts out as a small giggle from one of the band members. Subtle. Barely even noticeable over the roar of the guitars and distortion, but it slowly climaxes in to a crescendo of laughter from not one but all members of the band.
We’re damn near delirious at this point, I’m having trouble standing, and we’re still trying to play through the song. The laughing becomes uncontrollable and we’re all missing notes like a seventh grade school band.
The lead singer can’t yell in to the microphone any longer. He’s too busy, hunched over, trying his hardest just to play the correct notes on the guitar. He’s laughing so hard that his sides hurt.
How ridiculous. How utterly absurd was our entire situation, that we were all laughing about it at the same time? We want to be a successful band so badly that we are willing to stand in an insanely hot room and exert ourselves for hours on end, just to play the exact same music a few nights later in front of a group of strangers.
We stop the song. We can’t keep playing any longer. The laughter is too much. In the absurdity and insanity of it all, there is a silver lining in the cat pee stained room: us.